


Carmine

by AceQueenKing



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Movie: Star Wars: A New Hope, Philosophy, The Force, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-01 18:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14526528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: The Princess stirs, waking; her eyes catch him at her door and her face darkens, ready for a fight.He should ignore her, should continue on his restless rounds and ignore this ridiculous child. He doesn't. The darkness in him calls for a fight, beckons it; there is something that draws them together, him and the Princess, and he obeys the invisible pull on his mind.





	Carmine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [primeideal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/gifts).



There is a light in the darkness of the Death Star.

Vader hates it, hates how it niggles against him, wriggles into his head in a way he hasn't felt in so many years. He hates that this place, ruled by Tarkin and totally undesirable of him, that gives him all the time to fester in it.

He is in pain. The bright lights that Tarkin insists upon - a fool's errand, to try to make this technological terror burn any brighter - make his prison overwhelmingly hot. The lights, fluorescent, burn at his eyes. He is a stranger here, set amongst the fields of the dumb and the blind, and Tarkin has no interest in sharing his grand achievement with the Emperor's other pet.

They have never liked each other; now, Vader cannot help but hope that Tarkin chokes on his prize.

And yet, still, these lights are not the most annoying. That one is the connection he feels tugging at the back of his mind, like a needy padawan, like -

No. He does not allow himself to think of what could have been. Those dreams were lost a lifetime ago. He closes his eyes, wills himself to center himself in the force, but his attention is fleeting.

"Lord Vader?" Motti says, standing in the officer's mess like he owns the place. Priggish fool. "Are you alright?"

He ignores Motti, sweeping out of the room. His feet carry him through halls and wings of the Death Stars frankly ridiculous size, but in none does he find rest; the niggling presence knocking at his brain moves him forward, and his boots hit the detention center before he is entirely sure why he's here.

The light is almost blinding here. Ironic, he decides. The pull of the light there is almost intoxicating; without even quite being aware of it, he finds himself outside the Princess' door.

He can see her through the door's thin window, sleeping on a cot. She is, in a word, _radiant_. She is the source of this niggling light beam that aches in the back of his mind, casting light in equal fervor to his darkness. She is the very image of privileged innocence.

Had he not done it himself, he would suspect the girl had not even been tortured - she sleeps soundly, curled into a ball that appears only slightly vulnerable. Her hair: long, brown, curly, tumbles over her shoulders and reminded him just enough of someone else, someone long gone.

He _hates_ the Princess. He tries to burn with that hatred, allow himself to fall into the darkness, but the light she effortlessly exudes interrupts his focus, shining through the corridors of his mind.

He hates her so _much_. Why is this foolish princess alive when those he loves are _dead_? Why had she made him chase her from Scarif, and for what? Freedom? A useless concept. There is no such thing as freedom, only unseen masters holding your chain.

It is a pity. The Princess might be naive but she is not stupid. He hates that, too, that she would throw her life away for a foolish ideal. Freedom is another word for chaos. He has been a commodity on the free market; he would certainly not die to preserve this so called freedom. Palpatine had always turned a blind eye to such luxuries when they profited him. Once Vader was the master, there would no Hutts, no spice trade, no pirates; he would annihilate those who grew fat of the sweat and miseries of others. Those were the only people who could be said to be free in this universe: parasites.

The Princess stirs, waking; her eyes catch him at her door and her face darkens, ready for a fight.

He should ignore her, should continue on his restless rounds and ignore this ridiculous child. He doesn't. The darkness in him calls for a fight, beckons it; there is something that draws them together, him and the Princess, and he obeys the invisible pull on his mind.

Besides, the Princess is sure to hold a better conversation than Motti or Tarkin ever could.

"Lord Vader," she says in a low hiss. "Come for another chance to torture an innocent senator?" Her eyes twinkle with a mischief that tells him she wants him to take the bait, to admit her torture was pointless.

He had known it would be. Had told Tarkin as much. But Tarkin was in charge here, as overconfident as he was power-hungry.

"No, Princess." He stares down at her angry face, wondering how someone so angry could burn so light in the Force.

Was this what Obi-Wan had seen in him, once?

She folds her arms against her chest, brown hair falling stubbornly over her cheeks. She is angry and doesn't care if he sees it. Good. Hatred will make her powerful, one day.

He pauses. Stares. Evaluates. The Princess burns in the Force. She is...

"I assume my father has been called, then, pursuant to Alderaani law?" Her voice wavers a bit on the word _father_ ; they are close, he knows.

He does not answer. That, in itself, answers enough. The Princess' face changes, a sickening calm covering her pallid features.

"So, it's death then." She jabs at her hair, rebraiding the thick hair into the Alderaani custom. He says nothing, watching her redo the hair, the desire to take control of something, anything, blatant in her actions.

"Have you already signed it?" She asks, tucking one long braid into the circular shape that Alderaani nobles prefer. "Did you _relish_ it? Killing an innocent on a mercy - -"

"Cease your pointless lying. You were on no mercy mission this time, Princess. It is pointless to resist the might of the Empire." He folds his arms and watches her; she finishes tucking her second braid behind her ear and states back, a stubborn contest of wills.

"If it was pointless to resist the Empire, you wouldn't be tearing up half of this quadrant trying to find those plans," she says, taking a step toward him. "You're afraid of what might happen if people have a choice. If people realize they don't have to listen to you. You're afraid of that, of how the galaxy aches for justice. You must feel it. My father says Jedi can divine the will of the Force, and if you were one of them, then surely you know the Force desires justice and peace."

"No," he says. He has known the force, far better than any Jedi. It is not a peaceful, placid river; it is a stormy ocean, its waves threatening to drown all who try to use its power. "Spare me your political grandstanding. You know nothing of the Jedi, Princess. They were gone before you were born."

She takes another step toward him, then another. He cannot help but admire her spirit. "And why were they such a threat that you had to kill them, Lord Vader? Your actions only prove my words. You need people to fear you, but I don't. Your tyranny will not go unchecked, not as long as there are people like me. Like the Jedi." She stares deeply into him, and the darkness in him howls for some form of relief. He wants to break her, reshape her; expose her to the force and let her drown in its depths.

"Your words are _treason_. Do you not fear death, Princess?" He presses, jabbing a finger into her face. She does not blink. If she has fear, he can mold it, shape it,

"I am prepared to be a sacrifice for my ideals, if need be." She is fired up now, her focus entirely on him. There's something so familiar in her self-righteous anger, an undercurrent that bobs lazily on the horizon of his thoughts, but he cannot summon it to himself, no matter how hard he tries.

"Can you say the same, Lord Vader?" She asks, an eyebrow raised. "You've killed for the Empire. Would you die for it?"

The princess grins and he wants, so badly, to snap her throat, watch the little fool choke and die on her own aspirations. But at the same time, he admires something in her, this shining fire. She could be useful, if turned.

It would be a shame to waste her potential on a pointless sacrifice.

"My loyalties are clear, Organa." He jabs his finger at her again, and once more she does not step away. " _You_ are the terrorist here. Do you know what it is to take a life? Should your plans find their way to your beloved rebels, they could blow up this station. Could you stand that on your conscience? Millions upon _millions_ of deaths." He leans in close; had he still had the capacity to, he would have said it in a harsh whisper. As it is, the booming baritone vocalator will do. "There were only _thousands_ of Jedi. If I am a murderer and a tyrant, Princess, what will that make you?"

"Sacrifices must sometimes be made," she says, but he's rattled her. She bites her lips, deep in thought. He smiles in bitter triumph. They are no different, morally; the sooner she accepts that, the sooner he can train her.

They stare at one another, warily hunting for weak points; his wrist communicator chimes and he ignores it. Leia, too, refuses to break eye contact, furious. The call continues to rise in volume; it must be Tarkin. No one else would dare to insist upon making contact with him personally beyond the Emperor. And Sidious is far too gleeful at playing his favorites against one another to talk to either of them, he knows that much.

Besides, his master has other ways of getting his attention.

The alarm grows in volume, obnoxious.

He holds his hand over it but something in him hesitates to tear his eyes away from the Princess. What is it that makes him focus on her? Why can't he look away?

"Better answer," she says, a smirk on her face. "Master's waiting."

That insult burns more than she can know, and he finds his hand tightening on her shoulder before he can stop himself.

She does not cry out, but her eyes widen in fear.

Somehow, this, of all things, breaks his anger like a fish upon a rock. _Why_ should he care if she fears him? Why this _girl_? He snarls as he answers Tarkin's call.

"Ah, Lord Vader, finally." Tarkin smiles, his face resembling nothing so much as a skull. "Come to the bridge, would you? I have our guest's death warrant ready."

That, of all things, produces a gasp from the Princess. Tarkin hears it too, turning his head; a jackal, sniffing for his next meal.

"On my way," he barks, cutting off the call before Tarkin makes him explain why he's in the princess' cell. No doubt that irregularity will be going into his weekly gossip with the Emperor.

He turns on his feel, striding toward the bridge. He has no intention of signing the Princess' death warrant, but his mind spins, trying to find a reason why he should avoid sacrificing the princess beyond the instinct that tells him there is far more promise in her.

The Princess' makes a soft gasp and he turns back. She is not crying, though he would not begrudge her if she did. He has seen more pathetic displays at the realization of death than this, from warriors trained from birth to die.

"I won't appeal to your sense of justice," she says, her light still fighting against the descending veil. "I know you have none. But if you are a man of honor, Lord Vader, let me talk to my father. There are customs to be arranged in regard to my Senate seat and it will prove far more expedient should he have audio of me renouncing my seat -"

He says nothing for a moment, watching her with a frown. The Princess stands on a precipice. With one hand, he could push her into darkness, but he knows too well that this road leads to death.

And she is far more valuable alive than dead.

"Please," she murmurs, brown eyes looking at him like - like -

 _No_. He will not entertain that thought.

"That will not be necessary," he says, turning to look away. "The Emperor has dissolved the Senate in response to Scarif. And... I have no intention of making you a martyr, Princess. You will live with the consequences of your actions."

 _By my side,_ he does not say. But he hopes; it would be a shame to waste her potential, her... spark.

He doesn't see her face contort in rage but he feels it, the fire in her dancing in outrage. He's quick to shut the door behind him, but he hears her slamming her little palm into the heavy metal.

"Come back here!" She cries, but he ignores it, already focused on how to make Tarkin deviate from his bloodthirst. It is always the problem with Tarkin; he has no ability to see any deviation in the fates. He has always been dumb, and grabbing Krennic's mad station has not made him any wiser.

He is a problem, but he will not be, not when Vader and the Princess take out his benefactor. Vader will not be as merciful as Palpatine; he will let the Princess hunt him, and he will enjoy very much watching her slaughter the craven bully.

She does not have it in her to be merciful. At least, removed from the influence of her foolish father —

The realization of how to get Tarkin's nose off of her scent blooms like a red orchid in his chest, and Vader's breath catches in his tender throat.

It will require great sacrifice, of course. Greater than he has ever made, greater than she will ever suffer again. But still - one life against many...There is something to the Princess, some hidden, unassailable truth, that makes him certain that the math balances out.

  
\---

"Ah, Lord Vader, you've finally arrived." Tarkin sneers. "I have the order for the Princess' execution within my hands. Since you decided to take your time..." He glances toward Vader for a reaction; Vader opts not to give him one. Tarkin tisks, and they continue silently for two steps, before Tarkin sighs and continues. "Well, I only need your signature."

"I will take it under advisement," he booms, and his mouth twists in bitter triumph as Tarkin stops dead in his tracks. Just to help sell it more, he grabs the datapad out of Tarkin's grasp with the force, tucking it on his belt. 

"What? What do you mean? She is a danger; terrorist _scum_." Tarkin barks. "What reason could you possibly have to spare her?"

"Killing her only martyrs her for the Rebellion's cause. It gives us nothing." He jabs a finger in Tarkin's face; Tarkin, unlike the Princess, flinches. "If we are to hit the Rebels, we must do so _decisively_."

That word: _decively_ — sparks a recognition in Tarkin, one Vader was counting on.

"Ah," he says softly, then those cold eyes turn toward him, a small smile on his lips. "Yes. I had not considered that. You know, our Princess's home planet could make a sporting target for our first demonstration of our super-weapon. We shall keep her alive long enough for that."

 _And she will live far longer than you_ , he thinks, but does not say.

It is a stay of execution.

But that is enough, for now.

\- - -

The Princess stands at his side; he holds her immobile as her world blossoms into fire and blood.

It hits him like a rushing train, a million voices calling out in terror, and his fingers dig deeper into her shoulder. She does not complain, mute with terror and hatred.

He focuses on her hatred, even as Alderaan explodes into a spray of carmine rock and blood, and smiles. This is the loss she will never forget. This, the loss she will hold against all other trauma in her life. She will hate him and no doubt kill him one day. He looks forward to that, in as much as he can. 

She has promise, the princess. 

He will make sure she does not waste it. 


End file.
